This is not compehensive. It is merely the current so far. I will keep this list updated as the game progresses.

Pm me at any of my aliases or post in here for changes

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• Perov family - status: disbanded, territories consolidated mostly by Stoya and Mordvinov (and others)
  
  Head : Vladimir Perov(deceased)
  
  Operations : drug manufacturing (power based) and sales, blackmail, extortion
  
  Associated PCs: Vladimir, Yuri
  
  Notes: when Vlad was killed by CCDPD his organization was torn apart by power struggles. Perov territories were seized by other groups and old members joined other groups, left the city or the work, or were put down.
  
  
  
  
• Mordvinov family - status: functional
  
  Head : Rodian Mordvinov, Roman Mordvinov (2nd)
  
  Operations : drug sales, blackmail, extortion, kidnapping, stolen merchandise
  
  Associated PCs : Bas (deceased), Yuri
  
  Notes: currently allied with Stoya. Coopted Yuri to get Vlad's secret to the blue pills.
  
  Bas and Roman became friends when Bas (as part of a Gopnik gang hired by Mordvinov as muscle) saved Roman's life during a botched deal. (Kolomov was determined to be the source, resulting in blood vendetta.)
  
  This was the first time he channeled. He quickly rose in the ranks, finding a place for his brother among them too. He served as Roman's right hand man until paranoia led to a public assualt on CCDPD officer Ivan Sarkozy, Zoya Bocharov, and other bystanders in Izmailovsky Market. He was cut loose and soon after was hunted down by the Archangels and killed by Jacinda Cross.
  
  
  
  
• Stoya family - status: functional
  
  Head : ? Stoya
  
  Operations : drug sales, blackmail, extortion, kidnapping, stolen merchandise, human traffiking
  
  Associated PCs : na
  
  Notes: currently allied with Mordvinov, unofficial fued with Kolomov
  
  
  
  
• Kolomov family - status: functional, but very weakened. Losing territory and power
  
  Head : ? Kolomov
  
  Operations : drug sales, blackmail, extortion, kidnapping, stolen merchandise, human traffiking
  
  Associated PCs : na
  
  Notes: currently involved in blood vendetta with Mordvinov and Stoya.
  
  
  
  
• Solntsevskaya Bratva - status: eliminated- territories absorbed into Kolomov primarily, and others
  
  Head : na
  
  Operations : drug sales, blackmail, extortion, kidnapping, stolen merchandise, human traffiking
  
  Associated PCs : Mikhail
  
  Notes: eliminated. During the post USSR era until formation of ASU, was the most powerful organized crime group in Russian federation. Mikhail's father was muscle for Solntsevskaya Bratva before it was eliminated. Kolomov was responsible for their demise.
  
  
  
  
• The Syndicate - status: functional
  
  Head : Yun Kao
  
  Operations : facilitate illegal activities of DI crime group and those who purchase their services
  
  Associated PCs : Yun Kao, Ivan
  
  Notes: A collection of dirty cops that facilliate illegal activities for various crime families and other rich and powerful people who need favors.
  
  Aside from police, they own judges, DAs, lawyers, prison guards, and others. They often are the go betweens for the criminal world and make problems disappear.
  
  They get rich of course, but they also have a tremendous amount of power as a result. If they decide, they can even cut a rogue family out of the loop and eave them to the wolves.
  
  
  
  
• Yakuza (Japanese)
  
  
  
  
• Triads (Chinese)
  
  
  

Descending from honorable pasts was all well and good if you felt the need to keep such traditions alive. But for Yun that hadn’t been an option. She’d never really been one to follow her families rules. Her father was a good cop. Her father before him an even greater one in her eyes. But grand-da was gone from this life and there were only stories to tell. And stories were always grander as time passed.

Yun remembered her grand-da telling her stories amongst a bunch of old dusty books. It was her favorite place in all of the house. It smelled like grand-da even though he was now long since gone. But the stories he told lived on. But Yun would never be one of those heroes. No she knew she was the opposite end of the coin.

She was an officer of the law. Just like her father, and his father before her. But before Yun could dawn the badge she’d fallen and fallen far. Rules weren’t her strong suit. And when someone tells you not to do something your first instinct is to do it - not ask why? Or maybe I shouldn’t. Yun followed her first instinct and did it.

Sadly that one little rule - don’t steal. Bit her in the butt at an early age. Her mother had said she had always had sticky fingers. Even as a toddler. Yun was good at removing people from their possessions. Except this time she stole from someone she shouldn’t have. He had looked innocent enough. He was old even then. His hair graying, Chinese by the look of him, his eyes had the murky color of blindness. An easy mark.

Yun found her hand in his pocket and had taken the contents and was halfway back home when two men grabbed her and dragged her kicking while their hands muffled her screams of protest. Even as she struggled they held on tighter, they dragged her into a room similar to the one that her grand-da used to tell her stories in. This one was more impressive and it wasn’t dusty - it was perfect. It didn’t smell like grand-da at all.

The men let her go and she tried to make a run for it but they barred her way. The old man spoke. “Yun Kao, stop.”


The voice made her obey. It wasn’t that he was forceful but she knew that tone. The way he spoke, like her grand-da. But he didn’t know him. Didn’t know her. He knew her name though - how?

“You think I let you take the tracker without knowing you, child? We’ve been watching you for some time. Daughter of Yi Kao, Grand-daughter of Yung Kao. Child I know more than you may think. Sit. Have a drink.”


Yun opted to stand, but she was thirteen. The man standing at the door picked her up and sat her down and handed her the drink that was poured on the table in front of her. “Drink.”
Was the only gruff word out of his mouth.

Yun complied only because she felt she had no other option. It was sweet and fruity but held a bitter aftertaste of whatever chemical they had used. Yun’s eyes flicked up to the old man. “A little truth serem as they say.”


“Why did you steal from me Yun Kao?”
he asked. His words sinking deep inside her skull and pressing for an answer.

“You looked like an easy mark.”


“Is that the only reason, dear one?”
He asked. His voice was soft and soothing.

She nodded. “That’s all. Easy. I could sell or ditch whatever I found - either way - easy.”


He grinned at her and waved off the thugs in the room. “Good. Child. We have much to discuss. Unless you’d like me to remove your right hand for stealing from me.”


Yun snatched her hand into her lap and shook her head. “Talking is good.”
She said. And that was precisely what they did - talk.

But it wasn’t always talk Yun did. She learned, and watched and she became better at pilfering. Not just things, but information too. She was 13 and in the city of the Ascendancy she went pretty much unnoticed. Everyone looked a like in a huge city. If you knew what to do you could blend in anywhere - even in the high dollar fancy places. Yun became Sheng Lo’s top information gather when it was outside of the precinct. It had turned out Lo’s connection were all over the CCDPD. He wasn’t just some gangster making it big time. No he ran between the mobs and the gangs and the corporations. Lo was the middle man - cleaning up messes for a hefty price. And Yun was helping him make a profit on the criminal underground.

She only had one person who got in her way - Lei Lo. He was the only son of Sheng and an idiot too. He was idealistic and had irrational goals for The Syndicate and his father knew it. Sheng didn’t precisely say it but he was grooming Yun to replace him. Her fingers were everywhere. And when she joined the CCDPD Academy Sheng Lo held a grand party. And when she graduated top of her class he threw an even bigger one.

He invited all the players. Anyone who was anyone and they all mixed and mingled in his house and there was no blood shed. No guns. No knives. Nothing, not even a cut finger on a dropped champagne glass. There wasn’t even the slightest shove as everyone raised their glass to Yun’s achievements. Sheng was proud. But he had a two tasks for her.

The first was easy - give a ‘good’ cops a ‘good’ warning as to what happens when you try to leave The Syndicate. Yun remembered when the man’s partner got his warning. Apparently it didn’t stick with him. He needed a second dose of it. Shooting him was her first option, she didn’t want him dead. And she did it face to face. There was no pretense to it. Yun took him aside down a camera-less alley way and shot him with only a fews words. “Consider this a warning.”
The next time won’t be so pretty.

Yun made an anonymous phone call and he’d be right as rain later. But he got his warning and Yun wouldn’t have any qualms about carrying out further warnings. But it really was a shame to lose human life. She still was a cop after all.

But the second task was much easier. Lei Lo needed to have an accident. He was a good cop too. Couldn’t have two good cops shot at the same time. No, Lei went missing that same night. Never seen again, until his body washed up from the river with the classic cement boots from the mobster movies. It was Yun’s warning to the rest of the groups they worked with. Don’t mess with them. There really was no way to seal the deal with the classic head of a horse in your bed with Lei Lo - maybe some other day.

It wasn’t for another few years that Sheng took sick. Everyone thought he was lying on his death bed when he gave Yun The Syndicate. It was supposed to be temporary until he got better. But no one believed he would. So life went on. Yun took over. She profited. Made more money in those few months than the three prior to that.

But Sheng got better. Some say he was poisoned, others say it was cancer. But Yun knew it was far more dangerous - he’d had a rare heart attack but had survived. He had been remanded to bed rest and relaxation. No one was allowed to see him. And none could. Sheng had been high up in the Himalaya mountains in a private retreat relaxing. Bringing his blood pressure down and getting older as he did.

When he returned he did so as an adviser to Yun. He was her most trusted voice. And he would be until the day he passed from this earth. And much like the celebration he’d given Yun when she graduated Yun would celebrate his passing with the same grand gesture. But Yun hoped not too soon. She didn’t want to lose her second father.

She'd been about to sign off to the night shift when an RTA sent the emergency room into a tailspin.

The girl was the worst casualty, spilling blood faster than they could pump it in. The power webbed through Morven in the same touch that found a line for the IV, her concentration split to the task; fumbling, twelve hours deep into a relentless shift. The team worked seamlessly around her. Barking orders and feedback from the machines. But the weaves were unravelling as fast as she could form them, the damage raging at a swifter pace than she could work. Monitors began a shrill warning; a drill on her focus. Somewhere distant she could hear her name pointed in question, the words muffled. Darkness misted in the edges of her vision like the night she had collapsed at Soren's feet.

You're going to lose her.

She drew deeper, could feel the sweetness begin to hurt as it surged and the flows strengthened. But even then she could still feel her slipping away, each touch of the power a drain, like the girl simply didn't have enough energy to support the work. No, no, no, no, no. There was sudden stillness around her, like the world had suddenly frozen. Morven chose not to acknowledge it. Her shoes slid in the blood underfoot as she tried to get a better grip; as if that would help anchor her; help the weave stabilise and penetrate. A colleague caught her elbow, pulled her hands gently away. Everything blurred when he glanced at the clock hanging overhead and called it.

"Time of death, four fifty-three am."


***

By now the red glow of sunrise was a memory, and Morven should have been home hours ago. Instead she'd only just snapped the gloves from her hands and clocked out, pausing momentarily at the door the nurses sneaked out to for a cigarette. Numbness cocooned her against the worst of it. The grief. The anger. She'd always had a temper; one liable to get her into trouble one day. But she'd swallowed it down to inform the family of their loss; absorbing those pale faces, the broken sobbing as worlds imploded, all the sharp edges embedding inwards. Knowing her failure was part of it.

She weathered it with the solemn professionalism she fought so hard to maintain during all her years training. Realised for the first time how tightly she had to hold on just to keep herself together.

Now, though, now she wanted to ram her fist into the fucking wall until the bloody pain eased out the knot in her chest. She choked the urge down instead, running her hand over the tight braid of curls at her crown; breathed in deep like Lyall suggested whenever the wolf bit chunks from her humanity. It didn't work, but it was better than grazed knuckles she'd have to explain later

A beep at her belt drew her gaze down wearily, then. By now her eyes burned raw with fatigue, but her brows still daggered low when she comprehended the message. The tight ball of kindling in her chest burst into abrupt flame.

Marcil was in theatre.

He must have been prepping for it even as the girl's life was bleeding out in Morven's hands. That little fucking shit! Her jaw set hard, and despite her exhaustion she began fumbling for her car keys, threading through the parked cars in blind haste until she found her own. She needed to get to the university hospital. Sage Parker was her patient and the bastard had no fucking right.

"Miss Kinnaird?"


She twisted from her car to find two suits approaching up the path. Government, clearly. Wonderful. Just wonderful. "Aye, that's me, and I've no time spare for words, not right now. Find me when I'm off duty."
Her palm rested on the door.

"Your shift ended at midnight, Miss Kinnaird, and we have already been to your apartment. We need to speak to you. It's a matter of some importance. This way, please."
The taller of the two, hair cropped short to his scalp, offered a tight smile. The fine lines about his eyes deepened, but his gaze was slate. A man running through the motions of pleasantry. Morven's lips pursed as he presented an ID holo formalised with the Ascendany's orange stamp. She could almost hear the low growl that'd be burrowing in her sister's throat had she been here. Her gaze moved to the shorter man, his face utterly impassive. Fuck.

"This needs to be quick. Understood?"


***

A nondescript office in the hospital complex housed their meeting. The smaller of the two men hovered by the door, hands braced in front of him. The other sat opposite her, caught amidst the glow of several screens pointed inwards, all shining with the hospital's logo revolving about as slowly as he chose to speak. He introduced himself and his colleague formally. Pointed out coffee steaming in a cafetiere, should she desire it (a nice way of saying she looked like shit; his flat lips almost quirked a smile). A jug of water too, if she preferred. Morven dampened the urge to bounce her leg under the table, the sheer leisurely pace with which he directed proceedings galling to every fibre of her desperate to be in theatre.

While he spoke he fiddled with the tech in front of him. Inserted a stick. Prodded a few keys. The glow against his pale skin faded, replaced with something darker, waiting. Finally he laced his hands in front of him and leaned in, the twin dark of his eyes meeting her own. He did not smile, not a hint; she counted the lines on his face while she waited for him to speak. Then, finally:

"Do you have any idea why we're here, Miss Kinnaird?"


Aye, she had an idea that the rumour of one too many miracles brought them to hound her doorstep. She'd known this would happen eventually, but keeping the secret had been secondary to making good use of it. Still, she cursed the ill timing. It made her feel more belligerent than she ought, even knowing that noncooperation on her part would only make things worse. Her lips pressed thin, but she didn't answer him. Silence reigned on the small hope she was wrong; she'd kick herself sharply if it turned out she spilled the secret freely when they were here for something else. Unlikely, but she hated regret.

He sighed. "It is required of all Custody citizens to register if they believe themselves in possession of Ascendant power. For the good of the Custody, and at the behest of Ascendancy himself. We believe you to be one such person, and yet you have not registered."


"Aye, I'm one of them. Aye, I haven't filled in the forms. Doesn't seem to me history's ever shown it to be a wise move. But I suppose you're not here to give me the choice."


He patiently swiped at the screen in front of him, ignoring the jibe. She could see the reflection of the registration form blinking in his eyes, that bloody orange text she'd stared at numerous times back in London -- when she'd first made the decision not to submit her life into the government's hands. Preliminaries began the interrogation. Her name. DOB. CID. When he asked her occupation her stony expression swiftly urged him to move on. Still he made her waste the breath saying it. Asshole.

"How long?"


"Since I was nineteen."


"And how did you first discover your ability?"


"That's not on the fucking form."
The words snapped out before she thought to control herself. The glare burning up in her eyes was as much frustration at her slip as irritation at her predicament. Sage's face flashed with every blink. The glint of skull. The glisten of brain. All those fucking wires weaving in an out; his parents' twisted love. How many times had she warned him? And he had promised to wait for her okay before he proceeded. Either he broke that promise or Marcil twisted him into it. He was a kid, and she knew how eager he was to jack back into the ether. The protectiveness swept over her again, and for one stupid moment she thought about re-purposing the fire in her veins. Just enough to get out of here. Deal with the consequences afterwards.

Her hand stayed, but perhaps only because she could feel how slippery the power had become; she'd wrung herself nearly dry trying to save the girl. A short sigh heaved out from her chest, a note of defeat. Trapped and cagey as an animal. She rubbed her face. Blinked out the tired burning. Tried to concentrate. Then leaned over to pour herself some of the coffee. Jerk awake her senses.

He watched her do it, stoical.

"My sister and I hiked a lot in the Cairngorms when we were younger. Tough terrain. Isolated wilderness, A real tough fucking show if you don't know what you're doing, and when you're really deep there's nowhere to go for help if you fuck up. One time my sister injured herself. A deep gash, flash o' bone in it. I bandaged her up and in the morning we hiked back out. Drove to the hospital in Inverness. But when the nurse peeked a look, the wound might have been healing a week already. No bone to see. Just an ugly scar now. That was the first time, I think. Not that I really ken the significance at the time."


She'd killed a man that night, but the guilt had never weighed on her. Even now, skirting around that little detail, her gaze was clear of it. He nodded, checked his screen.

"Summarise your abilities, please."


Her hands wrapped the cup. This time there was no hesitation. "I can ascertain injuries at a touch. Heal some of them, or aid it to happen more swiftly. Easier if I can see it, not impossible if I can't. Sometimes there's nae even a scar."
She paused, deliberating whether to add the new snippet tonight's tragedy made clear. In the end it all poured out. "Though it takes a certain amount of strength on the part of the patient, I think. I can give a boost of energy. Like adrenaline. Short lived. Sometimes that helps, with the minor things. I can ease pain too. And other, more mundane things. I assume you don't know the intricacies of it. How it's made up."
She shrugged. "It's easy to move things with it."


Less mundane things, too, but she wasn't stupid enough to talk of how the same power could shove a man backwards like he was a marionette; how easily bones snapped and cracked and twisted until that marionette barely resembled a man at all. How ropes of it could coil and tip that wretched twist of limbs into the rush of savage summer floods, never to surface again. She blinked, arms resting on the desk in front of her.

"Are you able to show us any of this?"
That, from the man at the door.

"Do I look like a fucking show pony, gentleman? Ask the next question."


***

Hours passed in that damn office, unpacking and unpicking her words; the bare bones of the registration form, and much more besides. They were interested in the healing, she realised; its strengths and limitations, so far as she understood it. She'd never paused to consider that it wasn't something everyone with the power was able to do, and even now did not really care. Impatience was sharpening her to a blade's edge, battling the sheer fatigue weighing heavy as a cement shroud. Sage might be dead by now. Or they might be sealing up the incision and wheeling him to recovery. And she hadn't been there for any of it. Despite vowing, and meaning it with her very marrow.

She rubbed her face again, asked him to repeat another question stuffed in her ears like cotton wool. Sometimes he paused after she'd finished explaining something, eyes wavering as he read text on the screen, but by now she'd stopped noticing -- or wondering what the fuck it was he clearly referenced. The coffee pot was empty, even the dregs stone cold. Her thoughts were a strange collision of jittery and sluggish as she checked her wrist watch for the third time that minute. He'd been quiet the whole time, perhaps reading through to make sure he had not missed anything. Finally he stood, jerking down the hem of his jacket. When the stick uncoupled from the screen, the holos flickered and brightened to their usual screens. "Thank you for your time, Miss Kinnaird. We will be in touch."


Morven stood too, slicking back her hair once more, blinking rapidly. He offered his hand as he passed her, but she ignored it. Moments later they were gone. She was not far behind.

She needed to get to the university; she needed to find Marcil.

So what if he had to go to some ball, get pimped out by Scion Marveet to impress all his Custody friends and swear some kind of oath of fealty to the Ascendancy. Because Jaxen was renown for keeping his promises. He rolled his eyes and unlocked the door to his own apartment and strolled inside like the king of his own castle again. Finally.

A shower later, he ordered food and drinks from concierge in the front lobby. For the first time in a long time, he lounged on his own furniture, towel wrapped loose about his waist, sipped some good vodka from real Baccarat crystal, and enjoyed the dark view of his castle in the sky. If only he had Emperor Maximilian's sword laid across his lap, things would have been perfect. Fuck Scion for selling it. The bastard said he'd given all his possessions to the CDPS, but he clearly lied. There was no mention of any such recovery of stolen goods. He'd sold them off to the highest bidder. Given there were no shortages of rich people in Moscow willing to cough up the money, the sword could be anywhere. Then there was that fucking Sword of Light of Nuada sitting somewhere on some island in the northern arctic ocean that he was unlikely to ever discover. At that moment, Jaxen would have been pleased to have either.

Oh well. He was patient. "So much better."
He dropped his head back, muscles relaxed, body at ease. His fingers ached to fire up the computer systems and stretch his legs in the virtual world, so to say. Voxel had been absent from the dark reality for far too long.

He had to learn who all was going to be at this ball. Just to figure out who to screw with first.

His lips pursed at that. Taking Lawrence, an american independent reporter, was exactly the kind of screwing with people he liked. But dammit, his fingers itched. Someone else on his arm inside the Kremlin was so tempting.

He pulled up her number and sent Oriena a message.

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Message to Oriena</dt>
<dd> </dd>
</dl>


Princess,
Come to the magnificent ball with me. Saturday. The revelry will be thrilling.

Your prince.

Ivan parked in the old neighborhood and opened his door. Just being here made him feel some semblance of normalcy. He took some comfort in that. But he looked around, watched for parked cars, a van, something that might indicate they were being watched.

The worst part, the VERY WORST PART, the part that made him feel like there were chains around his legs now, was the realization that they fucking didn't need to watch him, now. He knew he couldn't be everywhere. And they had dirty cops working for them- whoever they were. Which meant that anyone he went to for help might be one of them. (Them....he was tired of calling them that.)

So short of packing his family up right then and there and moving them into hiding- where and how he had no fucking idea, nor how they would live- they could get to them at any time.

Which means they owned him, right now. They could give him freedom because they knew he couldn't do a goddamn thing about it.

He walked up the steps and opened the door. Not even locked. At least it hadn't been kicked in. He found ma and pop in the living room, the two youngest, Ana and Viktor, in their arms. He wondered if they would tell the older children, Sofiya and Pavel. They had families of their own, husbands, and children. All very little, of course.

All in the cross hairs. Because of him. Because of him, and a stupid mistake.

No. Because of that bitch. And his father's friend, a man so close he called him Uncle.

His mind refused to make the final accusation, refused to name the last reason. Couldn't. No....he couldn't.

But pop's eyes were filled with tears and fear when they met his, only briefly, before looking away. Shame. Ivan went to his ma and hugged her to him tightly, Ana and Viktor. Pop seemed to shy away, but Ivan wasn't going to blame. He put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

"I am glad you are ok,"
he said with quietly. They didn't look hurt, not physically. But that vow hardened, steel to diamond, seeing the terror in their eyes. He would make her pay. All of them.

Ma looked tired. This had happened once before. he remembered her look in the video. Maybe she had always lived in fear of this. No wonder she hadn't wanted Ivan to join the force. It hadn't been verbal, exactly, not really. Just comments. Telling him about what others from the neighborhood were now doing for work. Stuff like that. In hindsight, she had been trying to protect her oldest, something she couldn't do for her husband. And her children.

They were all caught in it, he realized. Trapped. And always had been. And all this time he thought he had been free.

His voice was calm, but only because he couldn't let himself feel anything else. "Pop, can we talk? In private?"
He didn't want Ana or Viktor to hear. They were 10 and 11. Old enough to understand adult conversations.

Pop nodded, gave Viktor a hug. "Crisya, let me talk to Vanya."
Ma gave him a flat look and pop sighed. "Please. I have to explain it to him. He deserves to know."
Ivan didn't think that was what the flat look was for.

No. he knew. That there was something to explain at all. Pop knew it too.

They went into the kitchen. Pop poured a glass of Vodka, offered him one. Ivan didn't. He already was having a hard time concentrating. He just sat down at the table and waited. The question was unnecessary. And he wasn't sure how to ask without making accusations.

Pop seemed to wait, hoping he'd break the silence. Finally, he realized it wasn't gonna happen.

The beer was not terrible.

Then again, when Ryker put the bottle to his lips, any memory for comparison was long ago dulled. He was studying the logo of a griffin on the bottle label when a voice interrupted.

"Well? Did I tell you, or what?" The waitress, hand on her hip, was smiling expectantly. Long brown hair, wide-eyes, and a narrow waist. She wasn't ugly. Ryker lifted the bottle in mini salute. His leather jacket crinkled softly with the movement of his arm.

"You were right. It's not terrible,"
he replied.

She chuckled and journeyed to the next table.

Not terrible summed up the entire bar, come to think of it. The floor was old, but mopped. The tables wobbled on uneven legs, but were wiped down. The servers competent, but not dreadfully unattractive. It was the kind of place he could blend in when he wanted. It was filled with the kind of people that he needed to study.

He swung the stool slightly, bottle resting the cap of his knee. The jeans darkened slightly where the condensation dripped. He shifted the bottle aside, then, casually swiping the wetness away.

His best eye sharpened as he measured the entrances and exits, the manner and carriage of those in view. A kitchen smelled like cooks worked at a steady pace. When the door to the back swung open, he glanced two such cooks. He wasted no more thought on them.

Beer sipped, he watched.

Ilesha hadn't really found a reason to stay in Moscow. Sure there was Kallisti girls - but Ilesha wasn't sure she wanted to associate there. It wasn't that she was a prude, and it had other benefits, but it felt like she was going to be used. For what she didn't know. She had nothing to offer.

And then there was Thalia who seemed as confused as her about things.

There was no amount of things to do in Moscow and she wasn't hurting for money. She could work motorcycles here just as easily and Ilesha had picked out the potential jobs for the past week. But she got a phone call early one evening.

"Hello?" She answered the unknown number from home.

"Ilesha, hunny. You're father had a heart attack."

Ilesha gasped. It was not common problem these days but it did happen. "What happened?"

Her mother went on for about an hour telling Ilesha all about how they were lucky and how things had to change. Her mother hadn't even mentioned her coming home. But Ilesha offered. "I'll be home in a few days."

Her mother protested but Ilesha had hung up resolved to fly home and help her family. Her priority changed now that they needed her.

[[ Ilesha's going on ice, if anyone needs her she'll be home in NYC ]]


Edited by Ilesha, Feb 5 2018, 12:42 PM.

Origin: Kiev, Capital of Dominance II

Appearance: 6'2", muscular and broad shouldered. Dirty blonde hair that's thinning prematurely, gray eyes. Numerous scars from poorly healed wounds. One eye is murky but not completely blinded and scarred from fire flashed in his face. Otherwise, he would be called handsome.

Age: 32

God reborn: Rāvaṇa



Biography:

The gray and orange screen of a .ccd government website blinked patiently. The blazing office of Channeler Oversight logo dominated the background. Just looking at it curled the taste of disgust in the back of his throat.

The man pacing before the work station clasped his hands behind his back and calmly spoke a command to fill the first field. There was no one to hear him. None but the computer system.

"Ryker Petrović."

"Male."
He added.

As he spoke, the fields on the screen were filled. This was the magic registration form put out by the CCD. The website was likely to have been blocked by the American government, but this was no ordinary office. The log in was no ordinary password either. The man did not resist questioning long before giving up his clearance status. Ryker's was long ago revoked.

The next field was CID. This number identified him as a citizen of the Custody. Behind his back, his hands clasped ever more tightly. It was just a number, he told himself. Just a number.

He stripped an orange shirt from his back and dropped it to the floor. The back that was revealed rippled with muscle. Broad of shoulder with fists like iron, Ryker had little in the way of conflict with the others around him. Yet a mass of scars criss-crossed those muscles, scars of the many fights he sought. Most were old and decently healed. Others were barely visible but to his discerning gaze. One was new enough to pucker bright pink over one pec. Each one was a mistake that forced him to learn. The lessons were hard. But he learned. He learned.

He forced his eyes to fall across the CID printed in big block letters across the shirt's shoulders, marking him a foreign invader. The orange marked him a member of Block Five, but the number was not so easily cast off as doffing a shirt. A biosensor barcode was tattooed on his wrist with the same information. There was no removing it short of amputation.

Ryker sighed and read his CID aloud, "719A433"
. Promptly, threads of fire curled into the fibers of the cloth. The orange shirt was incinerated within seconds. Good riddance, he thought. Today was the last day to wear any such item. Never. Again.

The field populated with his number.

The next field asked for location. Ryker smirked and looked around him. The room was spartan. A metal desk and rackety wooden chair sat abandoned in the center. The frame of an old printed photo fell broken on the floor. The family within would mourn their deceased. Perhaps. The man was a bastard. Likely his family would not miss him.

Other than the computer system, the only thing to look at was a thick, glass window overlooking a dead yard. Ryker knew the place well. If he closed his eyes he could see the asphalt, smell smoke, and hear the crunch of boots in the gravel. Even here, they made them march. And the chanting. God. The fucking chanting.

The warden's office was stamped with the official seal of the United States Army. Their beloved military prison was about to burn. But not until he finished this form.

Location: "San Quentin Military Prison Complex, Marin County, California, USA."


Ryker outright laughed at the next field in question. Occupation.

Currently, as he was standing in the office of an executed warden with full control of the Prison's security system, he could claim warden. As a prisoner, he cleaned toilets. As a free man, he was a special operator. And before the military, he was a father and husband. So which of these glorious occupations to claim?

The laughing ceased. He left the field blank and moved to the series of questions that followed.

Summarize what you can do with magic. Easy.

"Fires. Bombs. Melting. Forming. Moving. Killing. Blocking. Crushing."
There was one more thing, but he omitted that detail.

Most of those powers were fairly recent developments. Even Ryker was unaware of the extent of this power within. He practiced ceaselessly in solitary confinement. The best place to focus on the oneness within was without the distractions of the fucking assholes around him that he was forced to endure. It started slow, of course. He still recalled the day another prisoner escaped nearby grounds. Although originating from a civilian complex, word of another man of the power that cast off the shackles of bondage and reclaimed his life spread like wildfire. Within these walls, Damien Oakland was a legend. Soon another would claim that title as well.

The overcrowding at San Quentin was atrocious. So much for the golden justice of the United States. Rooms built to hold 10 contained 100 men. Often the pestilence that spread in such close quarters meant those of like disease were confined together. Tuberculosis in one meant anyone with a bad cough were thrown in, destined to a fate worse than the run of the mill cold. Addicts were thrown together in another that fought over a single needle as a vial of bad drugs were tossed in by the guards just for their sheer amusement. But of all the places to find one self, the black block was the worst. Ryker shivered with disgust just to think about it. A single skin lesion would get a man confined to a destiny almost worse than death. Even a simple infection from a poorly healed wound taken on the Yard would land you nestled in the wings of the Black Death, as the inmates called it. If a man didn't have syphilis when he went in there, he had it a few hours later. The inmates made sure of that. In there, HIV was the least of their concerns. You would die of syphilis long before then.

This power seemed to protect against illness and infection, though. Once the fevers passed, of course. He had a fever after the first time, certainly. But he was a dead man if the guards learned of the sickness. He quickly picked a fight with another inmate, granting him one of the scars on his back, and made himself pass the worst of it in 48 hour solitary.

How long have you been able to touch magic?

"Twelve months."
He answered flatly. Twelve long months since that first fever. Twelve miserable months trying to master it after Oakland escaped. The darkness and solitude did their work. This power inside was his power now. He waited until that much was confirmed long before this day. This day he would be free. This day was his last inside.

Have you ever been targeted for your magic?
"No."


Prejudice?
"No."


Anything else we should know?
That question gave him pause.

"They call me a national security risk. An unlawful combatant. A prisoner of war in a war that does not yet exist. As soon as I leave this cursed desert, I will return to the fatherland, no thanks to Custody intervention. I expect a glorious homecoming."


He hit submit and the form dissolved into the ether of the internet.

The power erupted into his grasp in that moment. When Ryker emerged from the warden's office, he left a train of carnage behind him. That day, Oakland's legend burned with the rest of the inmates.

He left one alive. One skinny guard that quivered in fear at his feet. The noisy calls for mercy did not touch Ryker's heart. But what stayed his hand was a single memory of kindness this worm once showed him. The act was repaid in the moment Ryker passed him by. And there would be one to relay the tale, assuming he escaped the hellish inferno consuming the complex.

**

A month later.

**

Mexico City to Cape Town to DV to DI.

The air force escorted him to Moscow. When he emerged onto the tar mac, cutting an imposing figure in the uniform of Assault Team Vega, hair neatly cut, and wounds tended, his eyes narrowed warily when a black limousine pulled up. The orange and black flags of the Ascendancy waved on the breeze. The motorcade was a black train of death, and Ryker summoned the power into his grasp when the door opened just in case they were here to kill him.

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips when the Ascendancy presented himself. A glorious home coming indeed.

"My personal gratitude for your service to the Custody."
The man said even as the power filled him in turn. It dwarfed Ryker's own, but neither commented on it even as they both sized one another up.

Ryker bowed his head ever so slightly and joined the man in the limousine. When they emerged at the Kremlin grounds, Ryker was promoted to Commander, allotted expenses, and assigned to what was sure to be a bloody and glorious campaign. He was given everything he asked.

Except one thing, but Brandon was unlikely to yield that so easily.

A fan term for Wilders in WoT has generally been that these people are "sparkers" - in that they are born with the spark to channel. At some point in their lives, they will channel whether they want to or not. If they don't control their abilities, the one power will kill them eventually. Otherwise they develop a block. These are the characters we have been allowed to play in the FA so far in the game.

Learners, on the other hand, are people who have the inborn ability to learn to channel. However unless someone guides them through the process, they will never do so on their own. There are many more "learners" in the world of the WoT in the books than sparkers. So far, in the FA game, we have not been allowed to "discover" that someone can learn to channel.


UNTIL NOW!!!



The game is now officially open to PC's "learning" to channel if they are "learners". Of course, you will need to RP out in a fairly realistic manner that PC's discover someone can in fact learn if they aren't born with the spark.

Of course the discovery that someone is a learner is different for men and women.

Men
In order to test if a man can learn to channel, the channeler forms a simple weave such as a little flame dancing in mid-air between them. The applicant concentrates on the flame and if the candidate can learn, a resonance is felt by the tester.

Women
In the testing to see if you can channel, a woman channels a simple weave and waits. Within five minutes if a woman has the spark, the candidate will try to channel the flow, and the test is confirmed. It takes longer for those who only can learn. However, a woman who has the spark can be detected by another female channeler without being tested.

Factoids:
*generally, Sparkers are stronger in the OP than learners
*there are many more Learners than Sparkers.
*A learner can learn at any age, however sparkers manifest in teens (women) and 20's (men) on average. If they haven't sparked by a certain age, they won't do so.


Have fun!

They said she should paint. So she painted. They said she should draw. So she drew. They said she should write a letter.

She couldn't think of anyone to write.

She used to write her stories. She longed to do so again, but it was best to forget the nightmares that plucked at the fringes of her sanity. She missed her little pets. They said she shouldn't snuggle with them at night. They said her pets weren't real.

They felt real. They kept her warm at night.

Mara tapped a pencil on the paper. They wouldn't give her a keyboard to write. She had to use her own fingers. She didn't mind. The eraser end of the pencil was marred with bite marks. The other end was worn down to a nub. The graphite slid across the paper in a pleasant, swooshing sound. Daiyu wrote in her native language. She was too tired to work with English.

She yawned and began the letter.



Jet,

My name is Mara. You might remember my other name. Daiyu. We are cousins. How are your family? How is Melany? She was always very nice to me. I have not seen my family in a long time. I don't live in China any more. I live in Moscow now. I have been placed in the Guardian sanatorium, but all they do is give me pills and lock me in a room. Father and mother left me here after my novel was published. They want my money. I'm not insane. Can you help?

Sòng Daiyu (Mara)

Edited by Daiyu, Feb 1 2018, 09:23 PM.